Bury me in a rut on Clay Pit Hill
In a cardboard box to let the worms in quick
And with no ceremony save the rain
To wash away my sins if it’s so inclined.

For preference I’d like a five-barred gate
With a six-barred shadow to stand guard above
The place where I lie rotting. But if not
Then a white stone will do, with nothing on it.

A few peewits as mourners would be good
But if they have some better thing to do
Then I forgive them, as I now forgive
All those who trespass against me and tramp
Over that queer grave where my corpse decays
Stuck in a rut on top of Clay Pit Hill.